After Jericho Brown & Terrance Hayes
Undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon
clutching sweating six-packs of cheap beer.
Clutching sweating six-packs of shitty beer,
white shirtless undergrads climb a ladder.
Shirtless white undergrads climb a ladder –
frat boys are drinking on their roof again.
frat boys are drinking on their roof again,
sound system pumping n-words & bass rumbles.
The sound system pumps n-words & bass rumbles
through open windows, backyards & boulevards.
Through open windows, backyards & boulevards
party music spreads hate & violence.
Party music spreads hate & violence –
undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon.
– Nathanael O’Reilly…
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Today I walked around the city with a white noise machine. Not an app played through headphones but a box, both futuristic and antediluvian, used during nights too loud or too silent to sleep. It ran on electricity so I snuck into my dad’s garage and took his generator, zipping it into a duffle bag and slotting my arms through the straps.
Then, I carried it around the city looking for you.
It rumbled against my spine, and I felt touched for the first time since your impression faded from that side of my bed. The soft whir distracted me from your high-rising, staccato accent, the one you explained as particular to your side of the Port. Despite the distance you traveled to arrive, were it not for the machine, I’d have heard you everywhere.…
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March brings its rain
and stubborn questions.
The red-wing blackbirds
return. I walk through
the half-thawing marsh, listening
to that familiar oak-a-lee call.
Every time the blackbird sings,
he shrugs his shoulders.
I don’t know either, I tell him.
Sometimes, I think the soul
is two-toned, like an old board—
the half that’s been baked by sunlight
is dark brown, the color of cinnamon,
or burnt toast, while the other half
that was covered with a stone or sheet
of plywood is light yellow, as though
the tree has just been cut—then
blackbird interrupts—
isn’t this a little extravagant?
Adding “the soul” to every problem, isn’t it
excessive, like including saffron threads in a dessert?
Yes, I answer, excessive—unnecessary, even
if it does impart that pretty yellow
you can’t manage with other dyes,
and subtle flavor, easy to miss,
like the soul when you consider all
the ingredients for life, many
of which are strong-flavored
like garlic, or molasses…
But aren’t we getting our metaphors
mixed up a little?…
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Growing up, my favorite movie was Gigi.
Vincente Minnelli’s Paris
as a breathtaking canvas
filmed in a brutal heat wave.
The director had jangled nerves,
then whooping cough,
then he was bitten by a swan.
On screen: joie de vivre.
Colette brought to life
with Maurice Chevalier & Leslie Caron.
As a kid, I read Chevalier’s risqué memoir
three times.
Minnelli was born in a tent show.
Too shy to be an actor, he designed costumes
his father thought were ‘never good enough.’…
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This letter concerns your long unused eyes:
Be warned—while still seeing, you may vanish—
quick as light slips past its closed door. Your sigh
can’t kill darkness. Read these words now. You can
think through them later, by lost, cool lamplight—
Watch the letters with concerned eyes. Don’t use
fingers on this page. Follow, strict, left to right,
quick. Light fades behind that door. Sigh and you’ll
miss them the way you miss slyly thrown balls—
think later, swing now. Then learn to light lamps
while you can make out shapes you’ve known. Night falls
fast, like fingers counting strict time. Write left
handed now, read with broken eyes. Cast looks
past words you’ll miss, like the lost balls you’ve thrown
at diamonds you’ve never seen.…
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She’s looking at something light—
………………..not the tree trunks on the right
……something on the left.
Say, sunset. Say, a salty breeze.
I dab white petals over the orange half disk,
……white out the breeze and shadows too,
…………smear grape, scales, and lemon juice all around
…………..the potatoes and potholes of her back.
(Reach inside her torso,
……the colors would darken instantly,
…………the bristles would spread, the wrist would ache.
Take a bite and it would taste like cotton candy
…………before catching in the throat.)
The trunks are too skinny. The paint is drying—
……………………………………….…………Time is running out.
Anyone can paint appearances—
……it’s not more difficult than lighting up a sky with whorls.…
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I became a gargoyle in the Summer of 2022.
The neighbors used to call me the girl in the window, but that is no longer who I am. So much time has passed since that I imagine there is no one left that has ever known me in my original state. I didn’t expect it to happen, didn’t think such a thing could happen, but I should have known there would be some consequences to my sitting hunched over the windowsill for endless hours upon hours. I should have known there would be consequences to my life.
I had been occupying a small room in Paris, in an apartment on Rue de la Tour, not far from the Trocadero and close to the Cimitiere du Passy.…
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